“Understood.”
“I don’t take meetings before 8 AM or after 6 PM unless absolutely necessary. If someone requests time outside those hours, you clear it with me first.”
“Got it, Mr. Rossi.” The words taste wrong in my mouth. Formal and distant when the last time I called him anything it was just “Nico” whispered against his skin.
“You’ll handle all correspondence, scheduling, and travel arrangements,” he continues. “You screen my calls. Take notes in executive meetings when requested. And maintain complete discretion regarding anything you see or hear in this office.”
“Of course.”
“And Ms. Dawson?” He leans forward slightly, and I catch a hint of his cologne. The same woody, spicy scent that I couldn’t get out of my sheets all weekend. “Don’t overstep your role. You’re here to provide administrative support. Nothing more. Is that clear?”
The dismissal in his voice makes something break in my soul.
I’m just a secretary.
Not the woman whose fire escape he sat on watching the sunrise. Not the woman who traced his scars and asked questions he actually answered.
Just. A. Secretary.
I meet his eyes. “Crystal clear, Mr. Rossi.”
“Good.” He straightens. “That will be all.”
I stand up and walk to the door.
“Ms. Dawson,” he calls behind me.
I pause, hand on the doorknob, and turn back.
“Welcome to Rossi Industries,” he finishes.
The words should sound friendly. Instead, they sound like a warning.
I nod once and escape to my desk.
Except it’s not really an escape, because the glass walls mean we can still see each other.
I force myself to focus. Stare at my notepad.
Color-coded calendar. Meetings between eight in the morning and seven at night.
Don’t overstep.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, desperately in need of a distraction.
Sora:So???
I stare at the screen.
Then I type:Remember the hot rich guy?
She replies:The one night stand? He texted you??
I shake my head sadly. Reply:No. He’s my boss. NICO IS MR. ROSSI.
The response comes back almost immediately:WHAT.
Then:BREE WHAT.
